


Modern Love

by BoxWineConfessions



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Online Friendship, Sexting, Texting, at least 15, ends when Yuri is about to debut in seniors, maybe he's a little older when he goes to seniors, naughty snaps, online friends to real life friends, starts when Yuri is 13 or 14ish, they meet online AU, unapologetic fluff, who knows - Freeform, wonky ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 16:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11234697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: There’s spillover from the chat, and the ashes of the message board, and the group chat. The circle is small despite the fact that his number of followers is quite large. Like, Yuri cannot even imagine 1200 people in the same room. Becoming closer to Otabek is a process that is broadcast to an audience.





	Modern Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dracorys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracorys/gifts).



> Happy birthday to @dracorys, a very talented artist, and probably the first close friendo I made in the YOI fandom. I value knowing you in so many ways.

 

Sk8erboi: I CANNOT land a triple flip, and my coach won’t stop eating my ass about it. Anyone got any tips on how to land this fucker!? @nugget, @TakeMeToChurch, @Inferno666.

Normally, Yuri wouldn’t stoop so low as to ask for help. Most of the young people here were hopefuls waiting to get scouted, but never would. The rest were hobbyists or people who never went pro, but still held starry eyed dreams about their days at the rink. However, it was the last element to his free skate, and he really wanted gold.

Otabek_Altin: Phrasing @sk8erboi. Does your coach really eat your ass? Disgusting.

Sk8erboi: STFU, English is not my first language.  At least I fucking win medals when I go to competitions unlike some people.

Sk8erboi: but also what’s the right word.

Sk8erboi: pls respond.

Yuri returns to his computer the next day around noon. His off-ice sessions were okay. Underwhelming, but alright. He’s got just a few hours to zone out, check Tumblr, redo his theme maybe, get some online shopping done, and oh yeah, keep yelling at that fucking asshole who embarrassed him on the message board.

Yuri adjusts his office chair. Then, he cracks a cold can of tab. Yuri pulls out a back of chips that he’s _not_ supposed to be having right now from his book bag, alongside a bag of peach rings that would make Yakov abso-fucking-lutley kick his ass if he knew he were eating them.

He has the skating forum bookmarked. Most of the people there are fucking idiots who will never do anything other than impress a few people at their local rinks. Others suck considerably less.

Yuri logs into find one new direct message.

Upon seeing it’s sender and who it’s from, he almost deletes it right away.

Otabek_Altin: The phrase you’re looking for is “ass chewing,” as for the flip, stop trying to rush the pick.

Sk8erboi: That’s really fucking stupid.

Except, it fucking isn’t that stupid. After the infuriating message, takes a half second to close his eyes and take a breath before he goes into the pick assist of the loop.

He fucking nails it, much to his own, and Yakov’s surprise and satisfaction.

* * *

If Yuri’s room, with his Ramones poster, and his Misfits poster, and all the books about witchcraft that Georgi let him “borrow,” but keeps “forgetting” to bring back is his sanctuary. His cat Potya, and his fuzzy blanket only solidify that point. It’s one place in St. Petersburg that he feels safe. If his room is his sanctuary, his rose gold colored Mac is the closest thing he’s gonna get to sneaking out of the house.

Yakov keeps him under lock and key. During his first season here, Yuri tried to climb down the fire escape and sprained his wrist. Ever since then, Yakov has been on pins and needles trying to keep him contained.

Except for right now. Yuri stares at his computer for the first few days after the lands the flip. He dare not turn it on. When he finally does, he has several private messages on the forum.

Otabek_Altin: How did it go?

Otabek_Altin: You haven’t been posting, which must mean you’re avoiding me, which must mean that it worked.

Sk8erboi: Yeah, it fucking worked. Thanks a lot asshole.

Yuri sends another direct message before this asshole Otabek. Who the fuck uses their real name as a screen name? Can respond.

Sk8erboi: How do you say in English, like someone who is loud and won’t shut up? Someone who is overconfident and needs to fuck off?

He fucking met the most insufferable asshole at the rink today. Some jerk from Canada whose parents thought that he was special, thought that he needed a Russian coach on his team to perfect his style and his choreography. His mere presence made Yuri want to barf in his mouth a little bit.

An hour later he gets a response.

Otabek_Altin: There’s not one word? Douche would work. Asshole is still okay. Pompous ass would be acceptable.

Otabek messages him back before he can respond. “

Otabek_Altin: Sometimes you ham-hand things and don’t turn your Cyrillic letters off. You speak Russian?” and of course the message is assuming a lot, because it’s well, written in Cyrillic.

Sk8erboi: Yeah.

And so they _mostly_ talk in Russian from then on. This Otabek guy seems to know English really well, and is usually willing to help Yuri when Yuri pesters him for help. Although, because of Yuri’s training schedule, and whatever time zone this guy is in, sometimes he misses a deadline.

He doesn’t tell Otabek that his English grades improve dramatically.

Sk8erboi: Where are you?”

Otabek_Altin: Kazakhstan, you?

Sk8erboi: Russia, St. Petersburg.

Otabek_Altin: I’ve heard that the city is really nice.

Sk8erboi: It’s not bad.

 Yuri tries to be honest, and not a fucking salt mine incarnated. By default it has to be nicer than Almaty, Kazhkstan, because people have at the very least, fucking heard of it.

Sk8erboi: Parts of it are good. The beach, but I never get to fucking go.

Otabek_Altin: No beaches here, just the mountains.

Yuri didn’t ask, nor does he give a fuck. Not that he had a search open in another tab, and was looking at the view of Almaty. They like their parks there, and their landscapes, and yeah, there were a lot of fucking mountains. It almost, kind of, sort of, looked pretty.

Otabek_Altin: What jumps can you land?

Yuri didn’t respond to that message until almost a day and a half after it showed up in his inbox. They’d gone to a regional competition. Yuri certainly didn’t look around on programs, and perk his ears up when there were conversations to be overhead. He certainly didn’t _look_ for Otabek there. He didn’t even know what Otabek looked like. _Yuri_ took gold and promptly made a post about it in the general thread. He refreshed the page over and over again until Otabek responded, “Congratulations.”

Sk8erBoi: now? All of them. But only triples. My coach busts my ass when I try quads.”

Yuri sends another message. Did I say that one right?

Otabek doesn’t respond until late.

Otabek_Altin: Sorry, I was on ice myself. Yes you used that ne right. Good job!” Yuri doesn’t feel his chest swell with pride when someone he’s never met praises his English. “Sucks about the quads though.”

Sk8erboi: Which ones can you do?

Otabek_Altin: All triples ofc. Only quad loops.

Sk8erboi: That’s enough to get scouted.

At this point, Yuri really only uses the message board to DM Otabek. Before he’d only wanted to brag about his accomplishments, and tell assholes on the board when they were wrong (which was often).

This of course was often met with responses such as:

Nugget: Ur being an asshole.

Inferno666: Be nice to newcomers

VegetableDeath (MOD): Stop flaming new users, or I’ll ban you.

Faced with a ban warning, the message board was absolutely fucking awful. He didn’t see the point in coddling losers who couldn’t land jumps, and whose costumes looked like they were pulled off of the sale rack in a department store.

One afternoon, there’s a thread on the general board. “SHOW US UR FACE.” Yuri opens the thread, hits “ctrl-f” and searches for Otabek’s screen name. His screen scrolls down to Otabek’s post, and his screenname is highlighted in burning bright yellow. Otabek’s face is mostly obscured by the collar of a large black pullover.  There’s the barest hint of a smile creeping up and out over the collar. His jawline is firm, his hair is perfectly coifed. His eyes are so piercing, so deep, and intense that Yuri has to look away for a moment from the photo.

He’s really fucking hot.

Yuri has posted photos before, usually of him flipping the camera off with medals. He scrolls through his phone until he finds something nicer on Instagram. There’s one that Mila took of him at the park. He’s wearing his jean shorts, and his Slayer shirt, and he’s nibbling on an ice cream cone.

He keeps a tab open of the image thread, and steals furtive glances of Otabek while he finishes his writing assignments. Later, he gets a DM.

Otabek_Altin: This might sound weird, but is your name Yuri?

Yuri feels his heartrate pound in his chest. He’s not stupid paranoid, but like every so often people still get murdered by crazy people on the internet. Then, he recalls all the photos he’s posted of himself at ISU events. His name is on his blog. He’s got more identifying information out there than he really, probably should.

Sk8erboi: Yeah.

Otabek_Altin: I thought I recognized you from the junior regional event. I couldn’t go, I’m still classified as novice. But one of the coaches at the rink went, and taped some of the skaters. I like your short program.

Sk8erboi: that’s really fucking creepy.

But it doesn’t stop Yuri from sending a double message.

Sk8erboi: I think this means that you need to send me a video of your performance.

Otabek_Altin: Email?

The file takes forever and a day to load, presumably because Otabek doesn’t know how to compress video. When he opens the video, it’s choppy quality. The video is pixelated and the music lags slightly. Despite the numerous flaws in the video’s quality, it doesn’t stop Yuri’s jaw from dropping. Otabek commands attention on the ice. His jumps are powerful, and his step sequences are raw in an unapologetically masculine way.

Yuri doesn’t respond right away. With his face flushed red and his heart beating fast, Yuri decides to actually go outside and read a fucking book, because this is just too fucking much.

Sk8erboi: I liked your routine. A lot.

* * *

Then, there’s upheaval on the message board. The mod, some asshole in Korea, goes on a fucking power trip for no good reason other than to be an asshole. Yuri gets banned, but Yuri learns though back channels, blogs, and other boards that a few other people got banned too. From the way people talk, the board is all but dead now.

Yuri gets a message on his blog. A warm smile spreads across his face like honey on hot toast when he realizes who it’s from. “We have a chatroom now. Since the board is dead.”

It’s filled with a lot of people from the message board. Except the messages move faster, and none of the conversation actually improves. Yuri mutes notifications from the general board, but tweaks the settings so that they go through for direct messages.

Yuri keeps on in the tradition of only really using the chat app for messaging Otabek.

Otabek becomes a constant in his life over time. There are good morning messages. Mutual complaints before morning practice, and then there are messages shared over break. Food photos are a must. Otabek is always drinking these exotic tea blends and showing Yuri photos of strange colored liquids in adorable mugs.

Yuri sends him photos of pirozhky in ever possible combination that he can find them. When Yakov takes him out for Chinese, Yuri squeals and revels in the fact that Otabek is going to be _so jealous._ He can’t even snap at Yakov, who mumbles under his breath when Yuri reaches for his phone to snap a picture.

Every time Otabek reveals a new detail about himself, Yuri is filled with this strange kind of slack jawed wonder that another human on this planet could be so cool. He DJs on the weekends when the season isn’t too hectic: summer and early fall. He sends Yuri one or two tracks, but only the ones that he likes the most. 

Otabek has a little sister. Otabek got a motorcycle for his sixteenth birthday. It’s a black Harley, and he looks so damn good on it in photos. Yuri feels warm in the weirdest kind of way whenever Otabek tells him that he will take him for a ride someday.

Otabek moves around constantly.  

He’s gone to America for the time being, which Yuri really, really, really does not like. The time difference is just enough to be annoying.

“Come move to Russia. OBVIOUSLY, there are skate coaches here.”

“Right, because immigration is always so easy.”

Otabek knows a lot about him at this point too. He tells him to not drink too much tab soda, because the caffeine will stunt his growth. Otabek asks him if he’s eating peach rings for snack, or chips. Sometimes, just to fuck with him, Yuri will snap a photo of apple rings. They aren’t his favorite, but he can’t resign himself to being predictable

Otabek knows that Yuri is super fucking gay. Yuri hasn’t told many people to face yet, but he’s told all 1200 of his followers, sometimes multiple times a day. He reblogs all sorts of memes.

Yuri wonders what about Otabek he doesn’t yet know. There are a thousand little things about Yuri that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that Yuri lives on the seventh floor of his building. He doesn’t know that Yuri still gets confused trying to take the metro. He doesn’t know that Yuri’s been wearing this underwear for at least two days, and he really needs a fresh pair, but is too lazy to shower. He doesn’t know that Yuri has a picture or two of Otabek saved to his phone.

Yuri doesn’t exactly want Otabek to know these things about him, but he wants to know these kinds of things about Otabek.

“Otabek, Otabek fucking answer,” Yuri’s got an English deadline in ninety minutes, and although Otabek may vey well be busy, he _needs_ a good score. He’s hovering right on the edge between passing and failing. “Stop fucking jerking it and answer.”

Otabek finally fucking responds, in the dry kind of way that only he can muster through ten point sans serif font, “But Yuri, you have no idea how terrible the dating scene is here. I _have_ to.”

Yuri, is trapped in a liminal state between ripping his keyboard away from the computer and grinning like a fucking idiot. He clenches his jaw, and his hands tremble over the keys, but he can’t seem to stop himself from typing and sending, “Just come fucking here. Date me. Help me with English. Problem fuckin solved.”

Otabek’s reply is swift. “Okay.”

“Wait, you’re into dudes?”

“I have interests and attributes outside those that I blog about.”

“Fucking rude.”

There’s spillover from the chat, and the ashes of the message board, and the group chat. The circle is small despite the fact that his number of followers is quite large. Like, Yuri cannot even imagine 1200 people in the same room. Becoming closer to Otabek is a process that is broadcast to an audience.

Yuri gave Otabek the link to his fashion side blog outside of his personal blog. Sometimes Otabek will reblog Yuri’s fashion posts, and add complimentary outfits, things that Otabek would wear.

It’s weird.

It makes his chest tight.

It makes him want to throw his computer out the window and never get online again when Leo, church guy, whatever, reblogs one such post and added, “I ship it.”

* * *

“Congrats on moving up,” Otabek didn’t say anything. Yuri _saw_ him on television at NHK. They’re both in the same division now. It’s easy to tell that Otabek’s skills have improved since he got a grainy video almost a year ago. “We can compete against each other now.”

“I hope so,” Otabek responds. “I’d like to meet you, more than anything.” Otabek’s been doing that lately. Being really sappy.

“Skype in the meantime?” Yuri types the message, deletes it, types it again, over and over and over again until he sends it and screws his eyes shut.

“Sure.”

“Hey,” Yuri breathes as Otabek’s face comes into view on the screen.

“Hi,” Otabek responds. Yuri can see little bits of Otabek’s surrounding in the background. There’s his unmade bed. There’s a blurred poster in the background. Yuri will have to ask what it’s of. Otabek’s desk looks really tidy. His own is littered with gummi wrappers and tab cans and tags from shirts.

Yuri’s never been on a first date before, but it _has_ to feel like this. They rattle off questions to one another that could’ve been easily asked over message. They stumble over the answers, and then they laugh soft, barely there chuckles in response.

“Did I show you my photos from the art museum?”

“Some of them.”

“They have this mural that takes up an entire promenade. It’s very communist. You’d like it.”

Yuri’s face shifts into a grin. He can see how fucking goofy his face looks in the little thumbnail image at the bottom of the screen. “Just because I’m Russian doesn’t mean I just automatically like communist things.”

“You were telling me you _liked_ the _Red Patent Leather_ album.”

Otabek’s voice is beautiful. It’s deep and enthralling, and Yuri will hear his accent in his brain long after they hit the little red “end” button.

* * *

Yuri makes the first move. Otabek wouldn’t even tell him he was into dudes until he dragged it out of him.  “I got some new shirts today. Don’t tell my coach. He already worries that I’m way too feminine.” Yuri changes into each one, sprawls out wide on the bed, and takes a dozen photos for every one that he sends.

He’s sure that he looks fucking stupid, spread out in sexy black, red, and white lace tops on his fucking sailboat sheets and comforter, but he dare not leave his room. He tries others, leaning up against his wall, but these efforts are quickly abandoned. It’s too hard to hide the mess in his room.

“Yuri, you’re beautiful.” Yuri watches as little “typing,” bubbles crawl across the screen. “Really beautiful. Are they soft? The lace looks really soft.”

“I wish you could feel.” Yuri sends another message right away. “You should send me something.”

“Later.”

Yuri drops his phone into his soup that night at dinner when Otabek sends him a snap of himself shirtless. Luckily, Yuri fishes it out immediately, and nothing is fucked up. He scrambles to replay the snap, and yeah, he fucking screenshots it. Doesn’t give a fuck about the notification that Otabek will get.

Otabek’s skin is toned and tanned. Yuri can see just the hint of where his well-defined muscles point downward into the waistband of his pants. Yuri fucking jerks it to a single screenshot. It’s somehow a thousand times better than every high definition porn video on the internet. He should know. He’s seen a lot of them.

* * *

“I can’t fucking believe that I’ve still never met you, but we’ve both been on the skating circuit for so long.” Yuri keeps typing. He stole a few sips of Lilia’s vodka tonic at dinner. He landed an endorsement deal for the fall 2017 line of Jackson skates, blades, and practice attire. Yakov let him have a finger of scotch. Yuri did his best to hide the way that he grimaced, and downed it anyway. He wasn’t stupid.

 Yuri accomplished his goal. His head feels light and airy, like he can’t hold a single thought. His body feels sluggish and clumsy. This is what being drunk is like, huh? “I just can’t fucking believe that I feel so close to someone I’ve never met before. It’s like you’re here with me all the time. It feels real.”

“It is real Yuri,” Otabek responds. “It’s real very real to me.”

* * *

“I’ve never done this before,” Yuri says as he adjusts his webcam. His skin looks washed out on camera, and he’s regretting showing up to their Skype date shirtless.

“Me neither,” Otabek confesses.

“You’re super fucking hot though,” despite Yuri’s embarrassment, he licks his lips hungrily as he looks at Otabek’s body on camera. Absent mindedly, he palms himself through his joggers.  

“So are you.”

Through it all, Yuri has to fight to keep his eyes open. He’s so used to screwing them shut and rutting up into his hand. Breaking the habit is worth it. He’s rewarded with the sight of Otabek, flushed and needy thrusting up into his own palm.

“God, you’re fucking huge.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Really fucking huge,” Yuri mumbles lamely. It’s all that he can think about as he palms himself. Touching it, sucking it, riding it…Although he can barely take a finger.

“Yura.”

Yuri _moans_ at the nickname. If anyone else dare try to call him that, he’d probably growl and try to punch them in the face. When Otabek says it, it’s the hottest thing ever.

“Are you close Yura?”

Of course, it makes Yuri come right then and there.

* * *

Yuri gets the message on his lunch break. In between shoveling bites of hummus and pita into his mouth, he checks his phone, and chucks it into the wall in shock. “NO FUCKING WAY,” and then he tears off in the direction he last saw Yakov going.

The message from Otabek read, “I got into Yakov Feltsman’s training camp. I’ll see you this summer?”

The time after the Junior Worlds Championship and Yakov’s training camp is a blur of anxiety for Yuri. He does his fucking best to clean his room. He takes out three bags of garbage. He donates three bags of clothing to charity shops, but only so that he can buy new things. He gets more girly tops. Otabek seems to like those a lot. He gets thin little gold anklets, and toe rings, and bracelets that pop against his skin.

He destroys any shred of _lame_ childish shit from his room. His sailboat sheets are ditched for a dark purple set.

He messages Otabek at least once a fucking day, “I’m really fucking nervous.” He double messages. “Nervous, but excited.”

“Me too. My coach says I can’t check a whole bag with American and Kazakh candy for you. So I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to get this collection to you.” He sends Yuri a photo of at least forty packages of candy. It makes his eyes bulge wide and his stomach growl.

* * *

Yuri stands in the baggage claim and shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. He looks at his phone, checks the time and then he checks for new messages. There are none. He checks his blog quickly, and then shoves his phone back into his pocket. He examines each face in baggage claim carefully, but he knows that none of them are Otabek. He checks the arriving flight board at least three times.

Then, the security gates open. First little old women totter out, then business men, and women in long dresses. Finally, Yuri sees him. Fuck. It has to be him right? He looks a little bit different than in photos, but Yuri can’t quite place the reason as to why.

He’s burdened down with luggage. Otabek walks towards him, looking uncertain.

‘Yuri?”

“Otabek?” Comes out of both of their mouths simultaneously. Barely a whisper, it’s filled with excitement, uncertainty, dread, and anticipation all in a handful of softly spoken syllables.

Then, Yuri’s jumping into his arms. He can’t contain himself. He’s here. He’s meeting Otabek fucking Altin. Otabek underscore fucking Altin.

Otabek drops his bags in an attempt to support Yuri’s weight, but Yuri is too fast, and Otabek is too slow. They both tumble toward the ground. As they lay there in baggage claim, Yuri wonders if it would be too forward to kiss the boy who has seen his dick on camera a dozen or so times.

Luckily, Otabek decides that it isn’t too forward, and presses their lips together. He’s soft, but firm. He smells like leather and rosemary. Yuri is inundated with a thousand little details that could never be replicated over video call. The soft feeling of his well worn shirt, and the way that he sighs into the kiss.

“It’s so good to meet you Yuri.”

 


End file.
